Little Father
by ShadowyFuture
Summary: They told me that he would obey me. They never warned me that he would trust me, too.
1. Chapter 1

*Author's Note: This is my very first fanfic! Dun-dun-dunnnn. I humbly welcome gentle criticism and honest feedback. I don't welcome non-gentle anything because of my tender little feelings.

This was loosely inspired by a short scene in chapter 7 of Lauralot's brilliant And I Am Always With You. If you aren't already following this obsessively, STOP and go do it now. Join us. It's bliss.

I own a small fortune in books, costumes, and baby gear, but none of Marvel's characters.

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><p>I watch calmly as the stasis tank fills with steam. The structure holding the tank begins, ponderously, to tip it back, coming to rest at a slight angle. The door to the tank opens, fog rolls out of the shallow chamber, and the figure of a young man stumbles out, collapsing gracelessly to the floor. Condensation beads on his skin and drips steadily from his dark hair. He is breathing hard, head hanging low.<p>

I crouch over him and stroke the wet hair gently, whispering, "Hey, it's okay. Trust me, everything's going to be fine." I help the young man to sit up, still shivering in the cool air.

"Of… of course I trust you… P-Papa." he stutters, meeting my eyes. I look into the wide-eyed, frightened face of my eldest son.

"Good boy," I murmur as I help him to his feet. Tendrils of fog curl slowly around our shoulders. "You want to make me proud, don't you?"

"Yes, Papa." he keeps hold on my left hand with his right and follows me out of the room without protest, hair still dripping, rivulets of moisture running down his cheeks. His bare feet leave a trail of damp footprints on the cold tile.

Moments later, I am settling him carefully into a heavy padded seat. It isn't monstrous unless you notice the bulky restraints, the ominous hardware and equipment looming on every side. "What's happening, Papa?" asks my son, questioning eyes locked on mine.

"Something wonderful, my son. I'm going to help you. Help you make me proud." I smile at him as I buckle down the straps restraining his arms and torso. They cut into his clammy skin and blood pinkens the water still dripping from his body, but I notice approvingly that he doesn't protest.

"Thank you, Papa," he whispers as the chair reclines itself. A buzzing whine, like electricity and sparks, fills the air. "Papa?"

The buzzing intensifies, and I am still smiling as my son begins to scream…

… and I awaken with a gasp, tangled in the sheets of a comfortable guest-room bed in Albany, New York. It is 2014.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington DC, USA

2014

I shuffle slowly down a sidewalk in that great American metropolis, Washington DC. All around me, its citizens are bustling, rushing, crowding one another as they hurry about their lives and daily business.

It feels strange to walk these bright streets, as free and unremarkable as any tourist. It's true, I mean no trouble to this country now- even if I did, I think, aware of my aching joints and bent back, how far would I get?- but I remember a different Konstantin Yenin, a younger and angrier man, dedicated to the destruction of these busy streets and the corrupt men who built them as a shrine to their own power.

It's hard to get excited about it now, hard to get excited about anything really. I've seen and done so much in my eighty-five years, done so much good work and also made so many mistakes, that all I feel today is tired. I no longer yearn to topple governments and change history- another generation is hard at work today, continuing to chase those dreams, building on the foundations that we old ones have laid. Such is always the way.

I am content to leave them to it. I am not long now for this world or its problems, and I really want only to spend my remaining days with my family, the ones who know me best.

That's why I'm here.

My eldest son, Andrei, moved here many years ago at the age of eighteen, courtesy of a relative rich in both money and sentiment. 'Come to America, attend an American university, live the dream of the free', he had said, and my firstborn had gone as if there were no reason on earth to stay.

It had broken my heart. I remember now the stiff pride, the cold anger, with which I had treated him for the first several years following his emigration; but under the anger was a deep well of hurt. I missed my son, but more bitter than his absence was the realization that he had been absent already, for years- as perhaps had I. We really didn't know or understand one another, and now, with the distance of oceans between us, perhaps we never would.

To know and be known… the longer I live, the more I realize that this is the true purpose of friends, of a family. I wish I had done so sooner.

As my daughter, Vasilisa, and younger son, Mikhail, each came of age, this sad little drama played out again and again; until at last I, by then a widower, was left alone in Novosibirsk to await the occasional letter or costly phone call.

Today, wearied with walking, I carefully lower myself onto a shaded bench and gaze blindly at the crowded bus stop across the street. I am staying with Andrei and his family in Albany, but accepted his offer of a ride into Washington today. Mikhail, now a businessman, is working nearby, and made time in his schedule for a stilted lunch date with me. It had gone as it always did; superficial conversation, an awkward silence here and there, hesitancy, like two people dancing without knowing the steps. My conversations with all my children were like that, as if we were merely friendly acquaintances instead of actual flesh and blood. Perhaps that's normal. We had very different lives, very different countries, and few common frames of reference to share. They were never as close as I would have wished, and they had only grown further from me during their years away from me. Yet how ironic, I think without bitterness, that it was never really the lure of this brash and colorful America that drove my children from my side.

No, it was probably HYDRA that did that.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Big big thanks to vrb18, who left my very first review! I really appreciate you taking the time to read and review. This chapter is short, but I'm also posting the next chapter at the same time, and it's a good long one. I do plan to update more often than this. I was away at a conference this week. For some reason they wanted me to work and not write fanfiction. Sheesh.

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><p><strong>2014<strong>

Americans, I muse as I rest on my bench. They are everywhere around, of course, scurrying like ants in every direction. They are so busy, busier, it seems, than citizens of any other country I have known. And anything goes in America; a businessman in a suit and tie strides past a middle-aged mother in a pink tracksuit and her pierced and sloppy teen offspring (gender, impossible to tell). All three are absorbed in conversations using the same high-end model cell phone.

I would have despised them once. I was so young, so angry. Why so angry, I wonder now. Who had ever wronged me? The world, I suppose, for failing so badly to live up to all my ideals, and Americans appeared then to personify that failure the most. Greedy, self-indulgent, corrupt, and sentimental, they seemed to exist for the very purpose of providing an object lesson to the rest of the world- watch what happens when you defy the ends of HYDRA.

It has been a long time since I felt that passionate anger. It feels like it belonged to another man. When did it change? Or, rather, when did I change? Was it my first trip to the US? No, that was in 1973, it had to be earlier…

Was it a story? A mission? Perhaps a friend… who was the first American I ever knew? I puzzle over it for a moment, and once I have the answer, the bright morning seems to darken just a bit.

For a moment, I no longer see the bus stop in front of me. I flash on my own hand ushering an obedient figure toward a chair hung with restraints; my voice, another time, curtly instructing someone to _stay_ until summoned. A blurred shadow, a flurry of violence, blood flying through the air. Screaming, always the screaming.

Of course.


	4. Chapter 4

**1965**

"Relax. All you really are is a craftsman. And all he really is, is a tool."

I followed Agent Dsarsko down the stairs, my heart pounding with excitement. Although I had been familiar with these well-guarded grounds for years, I had never been down to the lowest levels of the compound. Ours was the largest HYDRA installation in Europe, and it was very possible to work here for a lifetime without ever learning all of its secrets.

I had heard of Project: Winter Soldier, of course. We all had. Only a select few HYDRA agents ever actually saw or interacted with this most valuable asset, but the abilities and track record of the Fist of HYDRA were a point of pride for all. And now I- I!- had been selected as his next handler. I could feel a small, idiotic grin on my lips, and try as I might I couldn't completely wipe it away. This was the kind of honor, the kind of opportunity I had been working toward for years. At thirty-five years of age, I was the youngest handler ever assigned to the Soldier.

"Tell me the truth, Dmitri. He must resist sometimes. What do you do?" I asked as I jogged down the stairs, feeling a stab of nervousness. Ordinarily, I would have given Agent Tsarsko a hard time for his insistence on avoiding the elevators- an idiosyncrasy that I rarely humored without a fight- but today I was filled with an excess of restless energy. It was just as well to release it with the extra exertion where I could.

"I've been the Asset's handler for ten years, and we've had no problems to speak of. He's beautifully designed, I told you. There are plans in place for every possible problem. The technicians will take care of all that. All you have to do is manage him and use him, for the glory of HYDRA. They have a lot of faith in you- and you've earned it, Konstantin." Pounding down the stairs behind him, I allowed my grin to broaden in pride.

I was fortunate to be filled with that giddy excitement, because it was the only thing keeping me focused today. I had been up all night- for the last three nights, in fact- with our firstborn. At nine months of age, Andrei was a delightful child and I was thoroughly enjoying the early days of fatherhood. He had been sleeping through the night for months, but he was suffering from a terrible flu at the moment which he couldn't seem to shake. Luciya was herself exhausted and seemed close to developing the illness herself, so it was I who stayed awake the last few nights with my feverish son. Even now, with my elation chasing the fog of sleeplessness from my head, his red little face and bright, bewildered eyes haunted me.

It was my first experience with the sickness of my own child. The anguish of knowing that he didn't understand what was happening, that he looked to me in his suffering for comfort and answers that I couldn't provide, had followed me away each day when I left the house.

We finally reached what I realized was the lowest level of the compound. We reached the final landing, all gray and windowless concrete. Dmitri pushed past a pair of heavy industrial doors and into a large, cold chamber, dimly lit and unadorned. My grin faded just a bit as I shivered in the echoing silence. The room held nothing but a bank of computer terminals, about a dozen muttering technicians scurrying from screen to screen, and the cryofreeze tomb.

It was not called a tomb, of course. The other agents called it the chamber, the tank, the tube, even (playfully) the freezer- but from the moment I first saw it, with a dead blue face just visible through a small frosty window, I never could think of it as anything other than a tomb.

Dmitri led me to the technician who seemed to be in charge, a tall, gangly, bespectacled man of about forty years. "Agent Yenin, this is Doctor Burkov. Doctor, this is our asset's new guardian."

Doctor Burkov chuckled at the job description and extended a hand. He had twinkling eyes and untidy gray hair. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Agent Yenin. I'm sure our Soldier will be in the best of hands." I bowed my head in mock solemnity. Dmitri asked briskly, "Well, how long now?"

The doctor gave Dmitri a small smile. "We're right on schedule. We should be able to begin the final phase in a few minutes. He's actually already warmed up a bit."

Dmitri and Doctor Burkov continued to make small talk ("Any problems yet?" "No, there was a cracked tube but we caught it…") while I stood beside them, glancing around and trying hard not to look as ignorant as I felt. I had no idea what was going on. How did you go about defrosting a corpse and making it live?

The techs seemed to know what they were doing. I felt a little irritated- I disliked being at a disadvantage of knowledge- but also subdued. There was something unutterably bleak about this place, something I couldn't quite pin down. That sense of oppression would follow me through the entire day at the lowest levels of the HYDRA compound, and although I didn't yet know it, would be a constant companion every time I deployed the asset there.

My mind wandered as I waited. I thought of Andrei, at home with Luciya. The reality of fatherhood had been more exhilarating and frightening than any mission I had ever known. The daily act of holding my infant son in my arms, of treating him with a softness to my hands and voice that I hadn't known I was capable of, was absolutely terrifying. I liked problems I could attack and people I could impress or intimidate. The experience of comforting my tiny, helpless child was altogether novel, and not always pleasant, yet the ability to gently care for him seemed to come forth from a previously-unsuspected part of me, some fatherly instinct I never knew I had.

My attention was yanked back to the present by a sudden surge in noise and activity around me. I watched in fascination as the tomb filled with fog and obscured the slack face within. The machines all around us were rumbling, whirring, beeping, Burkov and Dmitri stood tensely alert, and the techs had eyes only for their displays, all this to do one impossible thing- to bring back the dead.

The structure holding the tomb began, ponderously, to tip it back, coming to rest at a slight angle. I looked at Dmitri questioningly, and he leaned in close- it was loud in there- and muttered, "So he doesn't fall out as he wakens." I shivered a little at this. They tried to prepare me, but this was really happening. That body would be coming out to join us, and soon.

"Now," hissed Dmitri, a blast of hot breath in my ear. I stifled my irritation at his closeness and kept still; it really was too loud to converse at a civilized distance. "Remember, he will not awaken as a useful tool. He will be upset, crying or screaming and struggling, but he won't have much strength just yet. Your job here is to bring him out of it. You can handle it however you want. Some handlers use reassurances, others force. I favor force personally, it seems to get the job done a bit faster, but it's up to you."

"Wait- I thought I would only be watching today. Aren't you going to- to take care of it?" I asked, becoming flustered.

"Sorry, friend, not this time. We awaken him so seldom that it really isn't practical to have a trial run. This is your task. Don't worry-" and he clapped a hand on my back- "I'll be right behind you. You'll be fine."

With that, Dmitri took several large steps back and left me standing alone, the bastard. I watched with fresh trepidation as the door to the tomb opened automatically. Fog rolled out like a special effect, and I waited, half expecting the Winter Soldier to sit up out of the fog, arms folded, just like Dracula did in the foreign films. Instead, two techs reached into the chamber and emerged holding a stiff figure by both arms. They weren't helping him out so much as dragging him. He was wearing rough trousers, like something a prisoner would wear, but nothing else, and I was struck for an instant by the inhumanity of it- but of course, he would have been aware of the cold for only an instant before the stasis was complete. _Remember, _they had told me_, he isn't like us, he doesn't feel like we do._

The asset stumbled, and the techs dropped his arms without real resistance. He sprawled heavily onto the cold tile floor with a painful _smack_ and trembled there, back hunched and arms braced unsteadily against the tiles. His head hung low. The condensation that covered his pale skin dripped steadily from his lank hair. He was breathing hard, making a high-pitched animal sound of growing panic.

Everyone in the room was now looking at me. I became aware that I had shrunk myself far behind everyone else in the room, closer to the sanctuary of the exit. Only the two least senior techs paid no attention to me, or to the shivering figure on the floor; they had their machines to tend, and so, I realized with trepidation, did I.

_Bastard_. Force, Dmitri had said force, and that sounded good to me, easy; so I stepped forward, shoved the asset onto his back, and slapped him sharply across the face. And again. And again. "You will calm yourself!" Slap. "Worthless _animal_-" Kick. "You are useless to us, useless to HYDRA this way, you-" I aimed another kick at his ribs and that's when I saw his eyes for the first time.

Andrei's eyes, only hours before, wide and watery with fear and incomprehension. The same, same eyes, blue instead of brown but nonetheless the same, and bizarrely misplaced in the face of an adult man instead of my tiny child, and I found that I could neither shout nor slap anymore. He was still hyperventilating, eyes fixed on me, and the violence was starting to work but I simply couldn't do it. Without any plan or decision, I found myself cupping my hand reassuringly around his face, my other hand helping him gently to sit, as I murmured, "Hey, it's okay, shh. Calm down, it's going to be okay." A moment later I was crouched by his side as he shivered, giving him an awkward half-hug of comfort as I would any sobbing child.

Several minutes passed in stillness, the only sounds my muttered reassurances and the asset's labored breathing; this was working too, but then I froze in a moment of jarring clarity, abruptly repulsed by the hulking, clammy figure that I was embracing. I quickly glanced behind me, suddenly self-conscious, but Dmitri was not watching. No one was really watching anymore. Once I had begun dealing with my charge, the situation had lost its novelty and now everyone was busy shutting down their roaring machines. I had a strange feeling, just for a moment, that the asset and I were alone on an island of quiet, amidst all these indifferent people. And here I sat, almost rocking the most feared assassin in the world like a toddler with a nightmare. _Bastard_, I thought again, but I stayed there.

It took about half an hour for the asset to become lucid enough to behave normally, or what passed for normally for him. I hadn't yet learned what to expect from my charge, but Dmitri assured me that his unnerving passivity was indeed standard for the Winter Soldier at ease.

I couldn't stop glancing at him. I had expected a dark, angry boogeyman, not this timid man-child. _How did he get this way?_ I reminded myself (not for the first time) to never get on the wrong side of HYDRA, then shook myself back to the present. It was time for his conditioning.

"Come," I said, and I held a hand out to him to lead him from the room. I cursed myself immediately for this, another action in grotesque parody of parental behavior, but he didn't recognize the cue anyway and only followed me obediently. Dmitri trailed behind at a short distance, talking casually with Burkov, and I realized that the Soldier hadn't acknowledged him at all. His eyes slid past him with nothing, no ghost of recognition, and he clearly had no memory of his previous handler. I experienced a fleeting, bizarre feeling of hurt before dismissing it impatiently. Would he forget me so easily too?

At the door to the conditioning room, I realized my charge had hesitated. His eyes were fixed on the procedure chair within, and he was breathing fast once again. Perhaps he remembered? If so, it couldn't be much, probably just a faint impression of pain. I had seen film of the chair in action, and I was confident that if he remembered more, no amount of conditioning could make him approach it willingly, as I had been assured he would.

My confidence faltered a little as a new batch of techs turned our way questioningly. What came next? Dmitri had sketched it out for me but I still felt unprepared. _Bastard_. Thankfully, two of the techs stepped forward and took the Asset's arms, leading him forward, leaving me behind. His steps still dragged a bit, but despite his still-shaking limbs and obvious distress, he offered no resistance. He glanced around the room and his wide eyes landed on me, locking on with a hint of desperation.

_It's almost like he's a person, _I thought uncomfortably. _Like he expects something_. I didn't know why he would, I was sure Dmitri wasn't forthcoming with civilized interactions during his custody of the Soldier, but after a beat I relented. _What the hell, what does it cost me._ I smiled slightly and nodded my head, and my charge relaxed slightly into the chair as if he felt reassured.

"This is good, Konstantin," Dmitri said jovially, patting my shoulder. "He is already imprinting on you. It's necessary for all his handlers, but sometimes it takes some doing. This is going to save you days of trouble."

"Imprinting…? Oh, yes." I had been briefed on this as well, of course. The need for the Asset to develop unquestioning loyalty and obedience to his primary handler was obvious, and there were protocols in place to ensure that this happened. I had no objection to any processes that would reduce the likelihood of the Asset attacking me in some unanticipated fit of rage, but I hadn't realized it would manifest like this. Despite Dmitri's upbeat words, I felt a brief stab of unease as I held the Asset's steady gaze.

They had assured me that he would obey me. No one had warned me that he would trust me, too.

The Soldier's eyes didn't leave me as the techs buckled sturdy restraints over his arms and torso. They didn't leave me as a rubber guard was crammed between his teeth. They didn't leave me as the chair reclined, as the mysterious array of machinery behind him spiraled down to embrace his head, as it sparked and hissed to life. They did finally leave me as the screaming began.


	5. Chapter 5

***Author's Note: Torture strongly implied in this chapter, though not clearly described. My apology for the late update. This chapter turned out to involve a lot of lengthy research.**

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><p><strong>1965<strong>

The mission, of course, wasn't just a simple assassination.

Nor was it just the three powerful governments HYDRA was simultaneously implicating in his death. It wasn't even the seismic political shifts that would certainly occur as a consequence of his disappearance. No, I reflected as I gazed out the window of our modified Blackbird at the glaring sunlight on the tops of white clouds. HYDRA only ever had one mission, the one shining goal no one else had ever been bold enough or visionary enough to grasp.

Always, always, HYDRA only wanted chaos.

Not mere anarchy. That was no new concept, even then. We worked carefully, lovingly, to craft a controlled environment of danger and unpredictability that would bring the world not only to its knees, but bring it to its knees_ before us_. Begging us to rule, to protect.

This, of course, was all we wanted; not the mere power to rule humanity, but the opportunity to protect it from itself. At times like this, when a mission took me away from my family, forced me to do things I would have considered unthinkable only the day before I did it, it always gave me comfort to remember those beautiful ideals that we were working toward. _No change is without pain_, I thought, glancing down from the vista of cloud and mountain outside the window to my lap, where I held a small photo of Luciya and Andrei. _It's a given that some must suffer in the world. All we do is make sure they suffer with a purpose._

We were heading to France. The target was a controversial Moroccan political figure, who would be visiting Paris by invitation to discuss a pet film project exactly now. He was supposed to stay in Paris for two more weeks, although he was privately considering extending his stay through the month. He was planning to spend tomorrow afternoon visiting the homes of two influential literary figures to discuss the film project, but would first dine at the Brasserie Lipp at 12:00pm CEST (although he had arranged to eat at Maxim's instead, and wouldn't change his mind until about 10:00am that day). He was scheduled to disappear at 11:40am and to die in great pain two days later, at about noon.

My thoughts drifted to the unconscious assassin at the rear of the plane. He was kept under heavy sedation, of course, for the duration of our transit. Once he was properly conditioned and briefed, we had no further use for him until we reached Paris, and I was not eager to be confined in the aircraft with a brain-damaged killer. It had now been forty-eight hours since I had first descended into the bowels of the HYDRA compound, and the asset had been comatose for thirty of those hours.

Dmitri had told me that, ordinarily, the asset wasn't even brought out of stasis until we were onsite, but the routine had varied this time in order to provide me with a chance to experience the deployment procedure with a former handler present for guidance.

_For all the help he was_, I thought sourly.

The usual routine involved actually transporting the Winter Soldier to the mission rendezvous while still in cryostasis. As unwieldy and cumbersome as that sounded, I would prefer that, I thought. I would have near-total autonomy during projects and missions in my new role; perhaps in the future I could delegate the task of awakening and conditioning the asset to another agent.

The process had thrown me. It was necessary for any successful agent to become toughened to the regrettable but necessary atrocities that arose in the service of HYDRA, and I was no exception. I had proven myself willing and able to work smoothly around all kinds of unpredictable situations, and I had been fully briefed on the Soldier in advance. The dull orientation documentation that I had memorized the month prior had been completely accurate in its descriptions of what to expect. Dmitri had kindly provided additional detail and color, and all in all there had really been few surprises during that first meeting with the asset.

Why, then, did my stomach twist with nausea when I remembered it?

My thoughts wandered back to that day, about six weeks ago now, when I had learned that I was to advance another level in the hierarchy of HYDRA. During a routine debriefing at our Moscow headquarters, I had been informed that, effective a month later, I would become the Regional Strategic Director, and would assume a new world of responsibility and power. My clearances were updated, and I was given a stack of files to familiarize myself with. One of them bore a title that filled me with excitement: Project: Winter Soldier.

A few hours later, I settled down in my new office (still rather bare) to review the Soldier's file. I could probably have taken it home safely if I had exercised a reasonable level of precaution, but agents had been "replaced" for taking much lower-profile chances that this. I was a believer in risk-taking only when the potential gains were worth it. Besides, my curiosity was strong enough in this instance that I couldn't be certain that I would be able to maintain the necessary degree of guardedness at home.

Project: Winter Soldier fascinated me. It didn't take many years of service before a HYDRA agent learned the basics about it, of course. Any of us needed to know enough to assist however we could with one of his missions at any time, in any place- or, at least, to recognize him well enough to stay out of his way. _There is a weapon, it looks like a man, it has been in successful use for a lifetime, it is powerful and obedient to its handler but is not programmed to look after the safety of anyone else._ We knew his description, and some of us knew him by sight from the occasions when he was led from one facility in the compound to another. Any further information was restricted, available only to those few accorded the highest degree of trust.

_People like me_, I thought with a swell of pride. I opened the thick file before me and began to read.

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><p>An hour after we reached the Paris safehouse, the asset was brought to me, alert, calibrated, and ready for service. He impassively reviewed the logistics of the mission with the strike team, and the quiet sound of his voice as he made his contributions to our plans startled me. I had known from the documentation that he could and did speak, but the humanity implied by the act was jarring nonetheless. He made critical observations in a low, flat tone, using as few words as possible. When the discussion was over he said no more.<p>

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><p><em>Project: Winter Soldier<em>

_Initiated: February 3, 1945_

_Proposed by Dr. Armin Zola, approved by Herr Johann Schmidt_

_The objective of this Project is to provide HYDRA with an organic, interactive weapon of maximum personal destruction and stealth. It was decided to build the Winter Soldier using a former human in order to take full advantage of the natural versatility and superior inductive capabilities of a human brain. Although thorough testing was performed, no fully synthetic weapon can be created at this time that can duplicate the uniquely deadly nature of a focused homo sapiens._

_With the regular application of the Winter Soldier's established maintenance protocols (see attachment A), all undesirable traits also inherent to a human brain can be satisfactorily eliminated. If properly and consistently regulated, the Winter Soldier is fully responsive to the will of its handler. It will question no orders._

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><p>The plan, at this point, was simple. The strike team would accompany our unwitting accomplice in the French Intelligence, Antoine, to the Brasserie Lipp, all dressed as plainclothes members of the Paris police force. They would "escort" the target into an unmarked Peugeot 403. Once inside the vehicle, the target would be subdued with a fast-acting sedative to avoid the possibility of a suspicious scene. The politician in question was a revolutionary, and it was commonplace for local police forces to bring him in for questioning and intimidation; as long as he displayed no fear, no one would accost them. Antoine, believing himself to be participating in a relatively innocent effort to menace the troublesome activist, would take a separate car to the next stage of the job, a decadent villa in Fontenay.<p>

The team had been instructed to simulate a trumped-up political arrest, which would explain any token resistance witnessed by anyone on the street. The target would be kept in a twilight sleep, with the appearance of consciousness, until the party switched vehicles in a low-traffic area. The politician, now placidly dreaming in the trunk of a standard Humber Hawk, would be brought to the villa for the next phase.

It was all fairly straightforward so far; we might not even have needed the Winter Soldier along, but with so many potential witnesses and variables, he was invaluable insurance. I had read that he carried with him all the lessons learned from over a decade of successful missions, although not much else; if anything went amiss, he could evaluate and adapt faster than anyone else available. A mission involving the Winter Soldier was a mission that would not fail.

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><p><em>The Winter Soldier is capable of any activity necessary for the completion of even the most intricate missions required by HYDRA. It is trained extensively in the operation of a comprehensive array of vehicles, weapons, and tools. It is proficient in all known techniques for reconnaissance, strategy development, abduction, intimidation, torture, termination, sabotage, and destruction of property. It is the responsibility of the Winter Soldier's handler to utilize the skills HYDRA has painstakingly ingrained in it to the best possible effect. In short, use with discretion.<em>

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><p>I sat in the area serving as an office at the rear of the guest wing of the villa, performing a preliminary debrief of the strike team leader. We had time to kill. The target wasn't scheduled to die until sometime tomorrow. The dying sunlight played beautifully on the expanses of shining glass and marble, painting the rooms with soft red light. We had appropriated the property from an underworld player for the purposes of this mission. He had taste, at least. We were dressed for our parts, I as a native Moroccan agent, the team leader still as a French officer. It was a necessary element of HYDRA's plan.<p>

Although the abduction itself was simple, the larger strategy was not; from the misled Antoine, to the fictional involvement of Moroccan officials, to the "borrowed" villa, we were playing a bigger game. The current stage was not about the politician at all; it was about the Moroccan, American, and French intelligence agents who were currently standing in the next room watching, aghast, as the man hailed as the next Che Guevara was slowly torn apart, piece by screaming piece.

They each, of course, believed they were witnessing a fearful horror contrived by their own government; they each, of course, thought they had willingly assisted in the proceedings up to this point, and could be held as culpable. They each, of course, were there only as ignorant pawns of HYDRA.

The French would blame the Moroccans. The Moroccans would blame the French. The Americans would look shifty and say nothing. The world would protest, documents would be classified, and humanity would trust its governors just a bit less.

The revolutionary's mistake hadn't been the sweeping changes he favored, or his growing success and influence. HYDRA loved revolutions. The goals and philosophies involved were irrelevant; radical changes meant chaos, and we could always work with chaos. This man's erring step had been in the opposite direction. His country's leader had offered him a government position- likely to keep him under control- and we had learned that he was considering the offer. An established monarchy, even a bad one, felt safe to its subjects. A status quo was a thing we could not work with.

If he would not help us to promote disorder with his ideals, he would help us create revolt with his death.

"We located the target almost exactly where we expected him."

"Almost?"

A muffled crash and a shout from behind the wall to my left nearly drowned out the question. Then, a low moan. Another voice spoke softly, the words French but unintelligible. We paid no attention and continued.

"Yes. He was actually across the street, at a bookseller with a companion."

"Did the variance pose any difficulty?"

"No, Director Yenin. The target was not close enough to our vehicle to take him by force without creating a scene, but the asset seemed to know exactly what to do. He approached the target with another operative in the character of officers come to escort him away for a bargaining meeting between rival political leaders, and the target didn't resist."

The soft French voice in the background lilted questioningly. The other one, the moaning one, whimpered an answer, then rallied with its defiant baritone. Brave, and futile. We didn't really need any answers anyway.

"The asset actually performed a role here?"

"No, sir. He didn't really attempt to act, but the situation didn't call for it. He's always very deadpan and, well, kind of disinterested, so it worked for the minute or two that we needed. The asset can't act, you know, or perform infiltrations. He does't generally blend well."

"Yes, I can imagine." I rubbed a hand across my eyes. I really needed a good night's sleep, preferably before I returned home; I missed my family but Andrei would likely still be wakeful during the night. Maybe I would get a chance during the flight back to Moscow. Although I would have time to sleep here, the muffled commotion and screams in the next room were scheduled to continue through the approaching night. They were easy enough to ignore, but probably not easy to sleep through.

The leader of the strike team was watching me. He twitched as if about to speak, then subsided.

"What is it?" it came out more irritably than I intended. I had a reputation for unflappable calm during missions, but the combination of a sick infant and promotion jitters had me truly exhausted. I had developed a hair-trigger temper over the last several hours.

He flinched, but continued obediently. "It's just… you would probably rest better tonight with a little less noise, right?"

I stilled and fixed him with my best glare. He wilted noticeably. Good, I thought savagely. "What is your point, agent?"

"Well… I've worked with the asset before. If you need him to be quieter, why not just tell him?"

I restrained myself from rolling my eyes and replied sarcastically, "What, just tell him to torture the target more _quietly_?"

"Yes, sir."

I stared at him, temper temporarily forgotten. "He… he can do that?"

"If his handler asks him to, yes, sir. He'll find a way to do anything you say."

I continued to stare at him for a few moments longer. Then, in a spirit of curiosity more than anything else, I rose and crossed the room to the ornate door opposite. I opened it to the sight of the Soldier as he raised a boot threateningly over the curled figure of his victim. The room had probably been some sort of lounge originally. It had been cleared of all furniture and now wore only its ornate wallpaper and tasteful paintings in token of its former grandeur.

The assorted planted government agents were lined up against the far wall, armed, guarding against the captive's escape and looking sickened. The figure on the floor shuddered on his side in a pool of blood and vomit. Ignoring him, I caught the Soldier's eye and he froze, instantly intent upon me as if the broken figure at his feet had ceased to exist.

"Proceed as planned but allow no more noise. I want to hear nothing from outside. Do you understand?" I said firmly in my best Standard Arabic, chosen for the benefit of our clandestine observers.

The asset's eyes searched my face, waiting for further comment. When it was clear that I was finished, he responded with a slow nod.

"Good. Carry on." I withdrew. As the door closed I caught a glimpse of the asset crouching down purposefully over our captive.

We heard nothing more for the rest of the afternoon. Or night. Or the next morning.

Just before settling down late that night in a nearby borrowed bedroom, I opened the door again- just a crack- to make sure nothing was wrong. The agents were leaning against the wall, eyes glazed and limbs slack with exhaustion, but still hanging onto wakefulness by their fingernails. The asset was clearly still hard at work, hunkered down over the politician and doing something small and careful to his face. I caught a glimpse of the target's incredibly wide brown eyes, bulging with fear, a flash of silver, and tendons straining out at his throat. The only sound in the room was the harsh intake of breath through the target's nose, over and over, too fast.

_He's good,_ I thought admiringly, and withdrew again.

It was my first good night of sleep in weeks.


End file.
